


Is a Kiss an Act of War?

by Fangirlshrewt97



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Banned Together Bingo, Blood and Gore, Canon-Typical Violence, Catholic Guilt, Crisis of Faith, Crusades Era Joe | Yusuf al-Kaysani & Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Declarations Of Love, Domestic Fluff, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, Established Relationship, First Kiss, Flashbacks, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Getting Together, Historical Inaccuracy, Hurt/Comfort, Immortal Husbands Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Interracial Relationship, M/M, Nicky coming to terms with his destiny, Nicky | Nicolò di Genova Has Catholic Guilt, No Smut, Origin Story, POV Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Period-Typical Racism, Pining, Self-Discovery, Self-Esteem Issues, Slow Burn, War, and learning to love himself in the process
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-10
Updated: 2021-01-10
Packaged: 2021-03-14 13:34:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28671582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fangirlshrewt97/pseuds/Fangirlshrewt97
Summary: “Because of how far we have come, Joe,” Nicky leaned back enough to look Joe in his eyes. “When I first saw you, all I heard were the hateful words that had been thrown against me. And then we died and breathed life together. I was so distrustful of you, but also so grateful. I was the invader, you had every reason to hate me, and yet, at every turn you showed me kindness. Falling in love with you, it was as inevitable as the sun setting today and the moon rising. It took me so long to see this truth though, so many years wasted.”This is a story of a boy who becomes a man who goes to fight a war he truly believed in, died, and realized maybe he had not been told the truth. It is the story of that man learning to find forgiveness for himself, falling in love with his enemy, and accepting it.AKA My take on the Kaysanova love storyInspired by the song 'Would You Come Home' by Tyler Blackburn
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 15
Kudos: 112
Collections: Banned Banned Together Bingo 2020, Banned Together Bingo 2020, The Old Guard Mini Bang 2020





	Is a Kiss an Act of War?

**Author's Note:**

> Dear Reader,
> 
> Here is my piece for the Old Guard Mini Bang 2020, which I know is a couple days late. My artist is unfortunately currently having some personal issues, and is still not done with her piece for the project, but I am sure that whatever she comes up with will be amazing.  
> I did not want to delay the story any further, so I am posting this fic. 
> 
> A little backstory for this fic, the idea for it is actually the first story that popped into my head for the fandom, but I just could not get myself to write past the opening scenes, until this Mini Bang happened, and I found the motivation to finish this story. It is yet another of the thousand or so (so far) fics dealing with Joe and Nicky's love story and how they came together, but hopefully I have brought some new aspect to it. I am really proud of how it turned out, and I hope that you enjoy it as well. I apologize for any historical inaccuracies, I tried to keep things vague to avoid making any big mistakes. 
> 
> This story would not have been possible without the help of my amazing beta @Sarai (on tumblr: @kindness-ricochets), who I cannot thank or praise enough for all she did. The artwork for this piece is being prepared by @booksoncanvas, which I will link to once she completes it!
> 
> If you like the story at all, please let me know though kudos and comments (which can include keyboard smashes, one word comments, or favorite lines!).  
> Disclaimer: None of these characters belong to me, I am just borrowing them temporarily.  
> And so without further ado, enjoy!  
> Fangirlshrewt97

  
_I was raised a soldier_ _  
_ _Put my weapons down to hold you_ _  
_ _Is a kiss an act of war_ _  
_ _  
_ _Would you meet me in the middle_ _  
_ _Could we both stop keeping score_ __  
_There's a battle I must fight alone_ _  
_ _It's you I'm fighting for_

\- ‘Would You Come Home’ by Tyler Blackburn

///

The sun was just starting to rise across the horizon when Nicky woke up in the arms of his beloved. They had left the window to their bedroom slightly cracked to break the stuffiness of the room, their fan providing little comfort against a Californian heatwave. He snuffled back into the pillow at first, yawning as sleep beckoned him again, but they had a busy day ahead. Shuffling carefully, Nicky extracted himself from the tight grip of his husband, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed.

A breeze drifted through the room, raising goosebumps across his bare legs as he lifted his arms over his head, stretching until his spine cracked. Letting out a sigh of relief, he grabbed the nearest pants, Joe’s, and shoved them on, grabbing the hoodie from the back of the chair as he walked to the bathroom of the safehouse.

This particular safehouse was one they had bought in the late 1960’s, a pretty, two story house with a nonexistent backyard squeezed between two others identical to it on one of San Francisco’s sloping hills. As Nicky brushed his teeth, he recalled the night they had gathered around the TV in this house, watching in disbelief and awe as they watched a man walk on the moon. It had felt monumental in a way that even Joe had lacked the words for. Washing his face, Nicky quickly ran through his mental to-do list for the day as he headed for the kitchen to start on breakfast.

They were here at Nile’s request, but the real reason was so Quynh could experience her first Pride parade. It had been fifteen years since their lost sister had found her way back to them, half delirious and filled with rage. She had broken their hearts and torn their bodies to pieces, taking her revenge on the only ones left alive who she could punish. Watching her deliver what they had though was the killing blow to Andy had been particularly difficult, but it seemed the world was still filled with miracles, as the immortals watched their leader revive.

Since then, Andy and Quynh had disappeared together often, exploring the world that had changed so indescribably in the centuries she had spent underwater. Booker had also joined them again, a man changed. He still had his grief, but his exile had taught him to not let it drown him any longer, and to come to terms with the fact that they loved him as much as the family he had created in his first life had.

They had slowly been relearning to work together, their family whole for the first time, a rightness to it they were learning to live with. It was one none of them took for granted this time. But this trip to San Francisco was a vacation, a plea from Nile to take a break after several missions back to back, which had thankfully ended without too much fuss for Copley to clean up. The man was getting on in his years though, and Nile’s request for this particular trip had nearly given him an aneurysm, though they had managed to persuade him in the end.

As Nicky crossed to enter the kitchen, he spotted all the Pride items Nile had brought home over the last two days, buzzing with a youthful energy that was so refreshing to be near. Nicky hoped she held on to it for a long time yet. He felt himself smile when he picked up one of the multicolored flags, a lovely blend of blues, pinks, and purples. Another was a vibrant combination of yellow, pink, and blue. And then all the rainbow colored items.

So many rainbow coloured items.

_You are a disgrace before God, and you will be punished unless you repent, Nicolo._

A sudden lump formed in his throat the longer he stood in front of the dining table, the cold from the wooden floor seeping into him. His hands clenched around the cloth, jaw tightening as he released a heavy exhale. He closed his eyes, doing one of his sniper breathing exercises, reminding himself that he was safe, he was home, his true family was with him. He tried to force the ghost away, even as it try to worm its way beneath his skin, freezing from the inside 

But then a warmth enveloped him, so familiar and comforting his previous tension melted in the face of it. He let himself sag into his husband’s arms.

“I could hear your lovely brain whirring from the bedroom, hayati,” Joe said as he adjusted to take Nicky’s weight, pressing a sleepy kiss to his hair.

“Forgive me, caro mio. I did not mean to wake you,” Nicky replied, not moving to remove himself from his husband’s arms. Those arms tightened around him briefly.

“Tell me what you are thinking?” Joe asked, still nuzzling into Nicky’s hair.

Nicky sighed with his whole body before turning in Joe’s arms, the man stepping back far enough to be able to face Nicky properly.

“The world has changed so much.” Nicky said.

Joe raised an eyebrow as his lips quirked in a smile. “Really? I hadn’t noticed.”

Nicky gave him a half-hearted shove before pressing close, burying his face into his lover’s neck. The thin shirt Joe had worn to sleep was still warm with his scent. “We’ve changed so much,” he amended.

“Hmm, and that’s what has taken you from my arms when even the sun is struggling to find the energy to climb the sky?” Joe said into his ear, making him shiver.

Nicky’s hands clenched around the rainbow cloth. “For many years, home meant hurt,” he began.

Joe’s hand, which had been running slowly along the length of his spine while his other arm was firmly wrapped around Nicky’s waist, stopped. When Nicky didn’t continue, he slipped the arm around his waist under the hoodie. The feel of sleep-warm fingers against his skin jolted Nicky from his reverie. Nicky swallowed so hard, Joe felt it against his collarbones.

“My father was not a kind man. I’ve told you this before. He was a drunkard, belligerent, arrogant, and so sure he was the only one who was right in the world, and everyone should obey his every command.”

Joe’s arms wrapped tighter around Nicky. They had been together for over 900 years, there wasn’t anything about Nicky’s history and soul that he had not already known. Nicky’s father had been a ghost that haunted them for many decades: as they had stumbled from Jerusalem’s blood soaked walls to the safety of Alexandria and then the vibrancy of Constantinople and after, beginning a life together as two people who had pledged themselves entirely to the other.

“Amore, he was not worth your time when he was alive, and now, centuries later, when he is dust and ash, and you are living in my arms, why are you thinking of him?”

“Because of how far we have come, Joe,” Nicky leaned back enough to look Joe in his eyes. “When I first saw you, all I heard were the hateful words that had been thrown against me. And then we died and breathed life together. I was so distrustful of you, but also so grateful. I was the invader, you had every reason to hate me, and yet, at every turn you showed me kindness. Falling in love with you, it was as inevitable as the sun setting today and the moon rising. It took me so long to see this truth though, so many years wasted.”

Joe gave him a smile so soft Nicky felt his heart constrict in his chest as how painful it looked. “Hayati, We have had over 900 years together. A love story that has spanned, 800 years and yet it feels like we are just getting started. And I treasure each second of them for the gift that they are. But I also would not change our past, not one word, not one moment.”

“But-”

“Nicolo,” Joe said, making Nicky stop. Joe rarely called him his true name nowadays, only ever in the midst of danger or the heights of passion. “I would have adored another handful of years with you, where we were not so worried the other would hate us for loving each other. But we both needed that time to become who we are today.”

Nicolo stayed silent, his head bent. Joe sighed and kissed his forehead, leaving his lips pressed against the fine strands of hair. “I feel as though we are running in circles, my heart. I can usually tell exactly what you are thinking, but today I am feeling perplexed.”

Nicky gave a hiccuping laugh and turned his head, tucking it under Joe’s chin, eyes lingering on the table. “I saw those banners and remembered our first kiss. And Constantinople, and every first before it. I heard my father’s voice again too.”

Joe gripped him around the waist again, tightening them when he felt wetness dampening his shoulder. “Oh, ya amar...”

///

The Genoan sun was bearing down on the port city, the breeze providing a cool counterpart to the scorching heat. Inside a modest home on a cobblestoned street, Nicolo bit his lip to withhold his cry. Pain blossomed in his shoulder as he was shoved against the wall.

His father loomed over him, his imposing figure overshadowing him. He blacked the light from the windows, the added shadows throwing his features into harsh relief. Fury was splashed across his face, eyes filled with such venom that Nicolo could feel dripping from those dark pools. His mother was on her knees in front of his father, begging. His ears were ringing too much to make out what she was saying, but Nicolo hated the desperation and fear in her eyes. And he hated his father for putting it there. His mouth tasted coppery, so he spit, and saw blood come out.

He stood up slowly. He used his knees to rise while bracing himself up against the wall. He raised his uninjured arm to support his bruised shoulder. It hung limply, and even the light pressure felt like fire. He squinted. His face was still throbbing from the punch his father had bestowed him. And his scalp still ached from where it had been used to drag him home.

The pain was not new, his father had always been an angry man, and Nicolo could not remember how many times he had used himself as a shield to protect his mother and sister. How many punches, insults, slurs were hurled at him. Home had always been his mother’s love, his sister’s smiles, and his father’s hurt.

His elder brother was everything Nicolo was not, following in his father’s footsteps of the family business, not particularly interested in learning more than he needed to get by, forever chasing skirts and breaking hearts. Compared to him, Nicolo was quiet, kept his nose to the Church books, and helped his mother around the house. It also did not help that he made friends easily with the merchants down by the port. The non-Christian merchants, who saw the world different to him. It did not help that his mother defended him constantly, that he tried to spoil her in return, that he did not speak of desiring any woman. He was a disgrace to his father, and only ever brought him shame.

But was that reason enough for this? Why was he the one who suffered for the demons his father carried?

Nicolo wanted to curse himself. He knew better than to stare. He had known for a long time. Boys didn’t stare at other boys. But more importantly, good Christian boys didn’t stare at Jewish boys who travelled the world.

He had tried so hard, tried to find the fire in his gut when Maria twirled her hair and ran her fingers up his arm. Tried to pretend he felt an ounce of passion for Teresa who always sneaked him warm bread fresh from her father’s bakery. Or a flare of attraction for Giovanna, the tailor’s daughter who always asked him to dance at fairs. Or even a spark of lust over Bianca, who all the other boys desired. Countless other girls who smiled and laughed when he joked, who stared at him when he walked through the market. But all he ever felt was friendship for them, even as the other boys teased him for being a heartbreaker. 

But all of those stares put together did not fan the same amount of heat in his belly as an absentminded smile given to him by Avraham, the son of the merchant who travelled here from Venice. The boy was of the same height to him, with dark hair, kind eyes, and an open heart. He had a soft voice that talked of the beauty in the world around them in words twisted to make magic of the ordinary.

It had been a normal afternoon, Nicolo had gone to find Avraham, to talk with him of his travels. Nicolo did not know of a world beyond Genoa, beyond these familiar cobblestone streets and houses he could walk blindfolded without getting lost, and loved to hear the other boy’s tales.

Avraham was equally kind and mischievous. Nicolo had first met him when Avraham innocently had held out a leg and tripped a man that had insulted his father’s wares. Avraham was also charming though, and no one had thought to blame the then thirteen year old for the act. Nicolo had seen though, and had been struck with a need to know more about him.

And so, for the past five years, he had been coming down to the docks whenever Avraham and his father travelled through Genoa, the other boy always coming armed with stories of his travels, and a small gift or two for Nicolo that he had treasured, some he had made himself.

Avraham had been the reason Nicolo realised he was not like other boys. He had never dreamed about the girls in town like his friends bragged, but he had seen Avraham’s curls in his sleep. The sparkling eyes when he had successfully pulled off a prank, his broad chest puffing out when he completed a trade by himself. His lips, plump from his habit of biting them when in deep concentration.

That day, Avharam had pulled Nicolo into a small niche by the water and showed him a book he had found. He told him about a story, supposedly the first story ever told, of the king of an ancient kingdom, and an enemy who had become a friend, and then something more. Nicolo’s heart had started racing, skipping beats when Avraham had clutched one of his hands when he had gotten excited. The world had narrowed to the feel of those calloused hands on his, the cadence of his voice as it rose in fervor.

The shadow of his father had escaped him until he had been right next to them, hauling him by the hair. Avraham had shouted, only to be shoved by his father. Nicolo had lunged for him, only to be held back by his father. The man was shouting obscenities at him, but Nicolo’s attention was focused on Avraham, and the small trickle of blood dripping down his forehead.

When Avraham tried to rise again, Nicolo let out a sharp cry and shook his head as much as he could in his father’s tight grip, hating himself for the way his friend’s eyes dimmed. He was used to his father’s fists, and would take them a hundred times before he forced Avraham to endure them once more.

He stopped resisting, letting his father drag him back home, closing his eyes against tears.

His father made him an ultimatum that evening, after he got tired of punching Nicolo, and let his wife’s begging finally quell his violence. “You are a disgrace before God, and you will be punished unless you repent. Go to God, repent your sins, we do not associate with heathen vermin. And not just a heathen, but a man! I always knew you were weak and the devil had a hold on your soul boy. If I ever see you with that boy, or with anyone but a good Christian girl, I will send you to the devil myself.”

He left the house, spitting at Nicolo’s feet.

His mother had cleaned him up with tears in her eyes. That might have been what Nicolo hated most.

He had packed his bags, three shirts and trousers, a new pair of shoes. He hesitated for a moment before also throwing in the small wooden carving of a dove that Avraham had given him last summer. His mother gave him one of his father’s old cloaks, a heavy thing that would keep him warm on the cold nights. He paused briefly to duck into his sister’s room, pressing a kiss goodbye to her forehead. He had always known he would leave home at one point, and have to say goodbye to her, but had hope for some more time with her. He left her room with tears burning at the corners of his eyes, but refused to let them fall.

Just as he was about to cross the threshold, his mother stopped him, thrusting the family sword into his hands.

When Nicolo tried to protest, his mother had wrapped his hand around the pommel. “I cannot give you money, Nicolo, but I can give you this. I want you to be safe, and I want you to take this. Use it to protect yourself. Or don’t. But let it be your tether to your home. Your tether to me. Please keep it safe.”

Nicolo was on the way out of Genoa before night had fully fallen.

He was seventeen.

///

The years at the seminary were quiet, and challenging, but fair. The priests appreciated his dedication to the Bible, his fellow students envied his ability to sit still in prayer for hours. How could he explain to them that the pain of rough stone under his knees was nothing to the sharp shocks sent by his father’s backhands? That the bland meals that would never compare to his mother’s flavorful cooking still filled his stomach ? He was deeply familiar with hunger, his father had relished in punishing him by denying him his meals when he was displeased. Here at least, he did not have to live in fear of having it taken away and being starved.

He completed his studies successfully, and was assigned his own parish. He did his duty to the best of his ability. He listened to the worries of fathers fearing they’d be unable to provide for their families. He tried not to wish his father had been capable of the same concern for his family. He listened to mothers worry over their daughters' futures, of the young boys and girls who came to him in fear of divine retribution for seeking comfort in their lover’s touch. He preached his sermons, read the scriptures, and longed to feel God’s presence again, hear His voice. The priest prayed that God would not betray him. He did not want to admit to himself that he felt as if he was not doing enough.

But then his Holy Father announced that infidels had taken the Holy Land, that they were barring passage for pilgrimage, and it was the duty of good Christians to reclaim this land. The choice to leave had felt like the only right one. If he could not find peace in his parish, then maybe this crusade was the way.

After enlisting himself for the fight for the Holy Land, Nicolo went back to his humble room and retrieved the sword his mother had given him from underneath the bed. He had kept it wrapped in bundles when he had joined seminary, and had to fight to keep it with himself.

That night, he unwrapped the weapon and cleaned it, his muscles remember the task with far more ease, even as his heart felt heavy. Once done, he created a small space in his room and practiced the rudimentary movements he remembered.

This fight would get him back in his God’s graces. It had to.

The journey across the sea was arduous, though blessedly without complications as he sailed with men familiar with the sea. When the coastline finally appeared on the horizon, Nicolo felt an inexplicable pull toward the land, almost as though his destiny was waiting on that shore.

///

The journey to Jerusalem was slow, each step under the relentless desert sun weighing his body down, and so many of his brothers fell along the way. Nicolo learned to wield his sword more properly, moving from his rudimentary training exercises to practice sparring with his fellow soldiers. He also learned how to use a bow and arrow for long distance, and daggers for close combat. He perfected his punches, learned to use the momentum of his kicks to knock his enemies to the ground.

He sang, joked, and traded stories with his brothers. Heard them repeat the same words the Archdeacon had told him before he had shipped out. _You will be granted a place by his side if you join this fight. If you fall during battle, you will be rewarded with an eternity in heaven. If you survive, you will live with his glory in you for the rest of your days._ His armor still felt unfamiliar and heavy.

He put the memories of his father’s hatred in a box and shoved it in a corner of his brain. The memories of his mother and sister he kept in his heart, a guiding star even as he accepted he would likely never see them again. Or at least, not until they got to reunite in Heaven.

The march from the sea to the Holy City was long and exhausting. The heat was foreign to most of them, the sun seemingly searing them to the bone. When he kept his skin covered, the faint breeze that occasionally passed through the land disappeared. And yet, wearing less was also not an option, their bare skin becoming red and starting to peel and burn. Nicolo’s feet transformed into blistered and bleeding lumps of stone at the bottom of his legs, each step feeling his he was sinking into the land.

As they drew nearer to Jerusalem, they passed a village that has been razed to the ground. Nicolo gathered wood for the fire and returned to the campsite, trying to come up with words to rouse his brothers-in-arms. The march was wearing on their souls, with even the thought of securing the Holy Land for their Lord too abstract to fight for.

Nicolo himself felt his faith wavering, and feared. He had left home, abandoned everything he knew, and surrendered himself to his Lord’s mercy. He was not a fighter, but it had not seemed right to stay in a parish when he was a fit man who could fight. The thought of killing made him pause, but war meant killing, and he was only doing it in the name of his Lord. He was doing it to save the infidels, to make them see the true God. He was doing the right thing. He was doing the right thing.

Maybe if he kept repeating it to himself enough he could convince himself to believe it.

If they were though, and God pushed him away? What would he have left? Nicolo shook these thoughts before they took root, more afraid of them with each day they got closer to Jerusalem. It was always easier to cast out the demons that plagued others compared to one’s own.

As he contemplated a story to recount over the fire, he was not focused on his steps and nearly tripped. He caught himself against a tree but the aborted movement sent his collected firewood tumbling to the ground. He cursed when a splinter pierced his hand, and pulled it out with wince as blood welled up at the wound. He knelt to collect it when he brushed over something soft, and lifted it to see a singed clump of yarn and cloth. Frowning, he tried to clean some of the dirt off.

His breath caught on his throat when some strands of yarn separated into what would have been hair. It was a doll. He tipped his leather water flask over the doll, removing more of the ash stuck to it. One of the limbs was missing, and the threading around its clothes had come undone.

He looked around where he stood, remembered the crude jokes the other soldiers had made when they had come across the razed village. They had arrived late to the fight, others had come to lay siege to the cities weeks back, and this devastation had been at their hands.

Looking at the doll, he thought to himself. Am I still doing the right thing? How could this be what God wanted? How could the blood of children, of so many innocents be what was needed to restore peace?

Swallowing a lump in his throat, he quietly tucked the doll into his robes and went back to dinner. That night, he spent a long time passing the doll between his hands, trying to find the holiness in the death of the owner of this toy. He built a fortress around his heart when he couldn’t find a good enough reason.

The shadows started to linger even in the blazing sun after that.

///

The shadows only grew when the fighting started. Nicolo was barely able to eat at the end of the day, the cries of his stomach drowned by the moans of the dying. His hands always seemed to be soaked red in a way he could not wash away, even when he soaked them in water so hot it nearly peeled his skin. He spent hours kneeling by his cot, bruising his knees black and blue, praying for his Lord to give him guidance, to explain to him how this bloodshed was necessary.

He heard echoes of screams in the night, and when he walked around the camp on patrol, he could almost swear he saw specters of dead men clashing on the field, a perpetual battle. On those nights, he brought out the ash-stained doll and the wooden dove Avraham had given him, holding them close to remind himself that he was doing the right thing. That he was doing what God wanted. What needed to be done.

The soil was stained red with so much blood, Nicolo wondered if it would ever recover.

These men were infidels, and they prayed to a false god. If they could see the light, if they could see what Nicolo’s people wanted…

Nicolo never voiced these thoughts aloud, even in his head they felt traitorous. These men were monsters, and they had captured their Holiest church and barred them from visiting. They needed to learn the error of their ways.

How could they not see that this fighting would only lead to more death, that Nicolo’s people would never stop fighting? Did they truly relish in the bloodshed? Could these heathens truly be saved? Was there a point in trying to resolve this in any way but war?

. They needed to die.

…Right?

///

Another day in the battle field, surrounded by the stench of piss and shit and blood, Nicolo marched on, swinging and slashing the opposing infidels. All of them were equally as tired and went down at the swing of his sword. Until one.

This man in front of him was equally matched to him, neither were seasoned warriors, but he fought with a passion Nicolo recognized in himself. The man matched him blow for blow. The man had looked like any other infidel, dressed in similar clothing with the lighter armor that did not weigh them down like Nicolo’s own chain mail. 

And yet, Nicolo’s blood seemed to pulse during the battle, making him feel more present in his body than he had felt in weeks. Every time they crossed swords, they came close enough that Nicolo could see the dark brown of his enemy’s eyes. Could see the hatred that they held. Later, if ever asked, Nicolo would say that that was when he realized eyes truly could be windows into the soul, because he felt those eyes boring into the deepest depths of him, and finding him wanting.

Their weapons clanged yet again as their broad sides collided, and Nicolo heaved in his breaths. Sweat started to fall from his brow, blocking his vision, even as it dampened his clothes and slowed him down a fraction. They moved back again, both panting.

His opponent did not seem as affected by the heat, his head covering and lighter armor probably not weighing him down as much or heating him like Nicolo’s own chainmail was. Still, Nicolo shifted his grip on his sword once more. He must have only closed his eyes for a second when the air next to his ear sang.

Nicolo could barely breathe, choking on his blood rushing into his lungs as a scimitar neatly plunged into his ribs. Nicolo spit out the blood, the pain blocking out every other thought he tried to have. It felt as though he was burning from the inside out, sharp and shrill, blaring so loudly in his head the world tilted on its axis.

His opponent was already collapsing from the sword Nicolo had managed to thrust into his abdomen. The day was yet another in the seemingly unending siege, and Nicolo moved his way through the battlefield more from muscle memory, the edges hazy with a red tinge.

At that moment though, Nicolo fell to his knees, holding on long enough to see the life fade from those dark eyes before he closed his own as he welcomed death.

///

The world was pitch black when Nicolo next opened his eyes, a stone landing heavily in his gut as he realized that all his prayers had gone unanswered, that he had landed in Hell despite fighting for His Name.

Or maybe because of it, how could the God that had preached of love have been accepting of the atrocities Nicolo and his brothers had committed in His Name?

So many nights he had stayed awake, praying to God, begging Him for answers, for a reason for this fight, for an explanation for the loss of so many innocents. Had gone to sleep desperately clinging to the notion that what he was doing was the right thing. But it hadn’t been. Or it had, and the Archdeacon had lied to him. Or maybe his sins were too great that even dying fighting a war in his Lord’s name was not enough to redeem him.

But then that familiar rot of the dead assaulted his senses and he scrambled to turn to the side as he vomited what meager rations he had managed to choke down that morning. When he was done, he stumbled to his feet, looking around to try and find the soldier that had killed him, breath hitching at the missing corpse. Ignoring the bad feeling creeping up his stomach, something that shouldn’t be possible, God, please, why had he been denied entry into His Holy Kingdom? Why was there no place in Heaven for him?

He was greeted with surprise at the camp when he managed to return, but everyone was too tired and weighed down by their own ghosts to suspect that their ranks were now filled with a man who had escaped Death.

///

If fighting before his first death had been tedious, after it they became a haze. He rose with the sun, grabbed his sword, the one item he still trusted to be real in a world that was slowly becoming more and more blurred with each day, and went to the battlefield to fight. Some days he fought nameless, faceless infidels...were they really infidels? As in, was he not one too? Now that he was no longer welcome in Heaven?

He still fought the Muslims, slaying them at the end of his sword, because that was what he had been told to do.

Other days he fought his soldier, his killer, his murderer, the demon who had accursed him with this deathless life. He killed him so many times he began to lose count, and yet the demon rose each time. Nicolo also ignored how that same loss from the first time they had fought and he had seen the light fade from the demon’s eyes was present in every subsequent kill as well. He died as many times by his demon’s hand. And what did it say of his supposed good Christian nature that he had started to think of this demon as his?

On the nights when he returned to his tent after not fighting him, he lay wondering if the man had been slain by the hand of another. Nicolo had managed thus far to escape death at the hands of any but his demon and wondered only applied if he died by that man’s hands. Or otherwise, what reason could his Lord have to grant him such an ability, and then bless one of the infidels with the same? Was he to act as the vessel of the Lord, slay the demon to truly conquer the land for his God?

The second time they had met in battle, both had been stunned by the appearance of the other. And then a rage unlike any Nicolo had felt before enveloped him, and he had killed the man, moving so aggressively, the other couldn’t even put up a defense. The third time, the other man had repaid him by nearly cutting off his arm, slashing diagonally across his chest until his stomach split open and spilled into his hands. They killed each other daily, and rose with the dawn to fight again, making their way through the battlefield until they inevitably met each other again.

At one point his demon had sent him sprawling on his back amidst the sand, the dust making his eyes itch, and held the scimitar underneath his chin. He had stared into his eyes and said something in his tongue, with the only thing Nicolo could pick out being Yusuf. Was that his demon’s name? Could he kill him now that he knew his name?

That night, when he had reawoken and returned to his encampment, Nicolo had pulled out the doll and dove from his belongings. His mother had told him so long ago that his sword would be his tether to her. Staring at the two objects in his hand, Nicolo wept. These two small objects felt like the tether to his sanity. To his soul.

He dreamt of his demon. Saw his eyes burning with pure hatred, saw them superimposed with the last look his father had given him. Saw large hands that wielded his weapon with such deadly grace he was captivating in a horrific way. Heard the insults. But the worst dreams were the ones where this curly haired, dark eyed demon’s face got overlapped with Avraham’s.

Still, his demon continued to battle with him, spitting insults at him with such venom Nicolo was surprised his skin did not bear the words as acid burns.

Still, he made Nicolo question himself and his Lord like he had never had to before.

///

As the days and weeks blended into months, as the city walls were coming closer to being breached, waking up and finding the will to fight got harder. More and more often, Nicolo went to sleep clutching the doll to his heart, taking the dove with him into battle, too scared to finally meet his end and not have it with him. He saw his opponent grow weary, saw his fellow soldiers grow callous and cruel, finding joy in prolonging the pain of their victims.

The sun blazed on the last day that Nicolo fought in the war. He met every attack with a block, circumvented every defense, embraced his ability to not get hurt into a recklessness that did not feel like him. He let his body take over, his mind and heart not in the field, but contemplating if he would see his demon again.

It was around noon when he finally caught sight of his demon, and made his way towards him. He was so focused, he did not hear the approached swinging weapon until it was too close. He attacked on instinct, raising his sword to bring down on the opponent, only to stop when it clanged against a familiar scimitar. He froze as he gazed at the face below the crossed swords, at the face of a boy who could not be older than sixteen. His breath caught in his throat, and he swung his head to catch his demon’s gaze, who looked steadily back at him. He said something sharply in his language that was incomprehensible to Nicolo, but which sent the boy scrambling away from them.

And just like that, after weeks of fighting and killing and dying, the exhaustion finally overwhelmed him. Nicolo collapsed to his knees, dropping his head in the process. He heard the demon lift his scimitar, and hung his head. He breathed out a final prayer, ready to accept the death, only to blink open his eyes at the sound of metal falling to the ground to his side.

His demon, Yusuf, was now also on his knees, shoulders slumped, looking smaller and more human than Nicolo could ever recall him being. When those penetrating brown eyes met his, Nicolo did not flinch, just laid his soul bare for the man. If God would not take him, then this man would deliver his judgement. Nicolo had not uttered a prayer in a week, not opened a Bible in twice as long. Whatever else may lay in his future, Nicolo vowed to himself that he was done fighting. This senseless bloodshed over land done not out of desire and devotion for their Lord but because of human greed and bloodlust.

No, Nicolo was done.

Returning Yusuf’s gaze, Nicolo got the strangest sensation he was not the only one.

///

Their journey away from Jerusalem passed under the cover of dawn and dusk, the danger of running into travelling companies of Christians or Muslims too great to risk walking with the sun in the sky. It was slow, and it was silent, a tentative truce established even as they expected the other to break it first.

After a full day’s walk from the battlefield, they found an abandoned hut that had some clothes that fit them, which they traded out for their bloody and torn armor. Yusuf threw him a long piece of fabric and then slowly used a similar length of cloth on himself, tying it to wrap his head from the sun’s glare.

They began to relax after their first run-in with bandits as they were crossing a particularly notorious stretch of desert, killing all but one of them, who they left alive to warn any others who would try them. It was a quick battle, but they had been ambushed, and Yusuf had received a fatal blow that had left him dead for a longer time than Nicolo was used to. The fear that the other man was permanently dead sent an icy chill up his spine and drove him into a rage. He had let his body take over, not fully thinking as he plowed his way through the bandits.

When he was finished with them, he had gone to Yusuf’s side and turned him to lay on his back. He had been tentatively brushing a stray curl when Yusuf coughed himself back to life. Nicolo hovered for a minute until he could see that Yusuf was lucid before backing away, and hoped that the fear he had felt was not so easily read from his expression.

Nicolo found Yusuf to be warmer to him after that incident. Not in any overt way, but Yusuf started to talk to him, seemingly rotating through all the languages he knew until he made a truly terrible joke in Sabir.

Nicolo’s breath stuttered at the familiar sounds, the words of a language he had last heard from Avraham. A language Avraham had patiently taught him, despite Nicolo not having an ear for languages. The African sun suddenly became the Genoan sun in the summer, when the heat was so heavy it seemed to sink everything with it. If he focused, he could almost smell the fresh fish being brought by the fishermen, hear the dirty jokes the sailors shouted to each other. See a pair of familiar twinkling brown eyes.

Nicolo didn’t realize he had frozen, or the moment when he collapsed to his knees. He couldn’t recall his inability to breathe, choking on nothing.

What he did remember was Yusuf calling him by his name for the first time, addressing him as something other than ‘Invader’ or ‘barbarian’ or a hundred other insults Nicolo had earned a thousand times over. He remembered the genuine concern in his voice, the slight panic in his eyes, the tight grip he had on Nicolo’s shoulder.

Oh, another first, Yusuf had not touched him voluntarily, or in a gentle manner before. Nicolo found it grounded him and set him on fire, feeling all the attention from this demon who was quickly turning out to be an angel in disguise the Lord had sent to guide him in his proper path.

Nicolo had burst out laughing, the hysteria of the situation finally sinking into him, and Yusuf, kind, understanding Yusuf stayed with him as his laughs morphed into sobs. Yusuf hesitantly pulled him to his chest, and did not complain when Nicolo had held his tunic in an iron grip, or had been unable to move until sunset, forcing them to set up camp where he had fallen. Yusuf, who had remained quiet as he had clawed through his own tunic to pull out a worn wooden carving and a burnt doll.

Patient Yusuf who had told him to rest, that he would stand guard. Who had looked so shocked when Nicolo had replied to him in Sabir. Nicolo went to sleep feeling as if a crack in his heart he hadn’t known existed had started to fill itself, heal as his skin did when it was cut into.

The next morning, they had smelled sea breeze and ran towards it, tears springing to their eyes when they crested the sand dunes to lay their eyes on the tall towers rising from the city of Alexandria.

///

Their time in Alexandria turned out to be the most idyllic few years that the pair would spend in their early years of immortality. Their bond of friendship grew stronger as they went from strangers who had been thrust into a bizarre situation together to people who knew each other.

They decided they would spend some time in the city, rather than move elsewhere. Nicolo found work by the docks, where strong hands were always needed. He kept his head down, and smiled with bittersweetness as the scent and the scenes reminded him of Avraham, of afternoons spent trading stories of their imagining, evening spent learning about how the stars could be used to sail the world.

Yusuf found work in the library, his calligraphy being praised by the bookkeepers. He was also the one to find them a more permanent lodging, and a mosque close by that he visited daily. Nicolo watched him and wondered how he could still believe so much in his God, how he could have faith in something that had not been able to stop the cruelty and death Nicolo’s people had brought upon the Holy Land. And yet, the words always seemed to get stuck in his throat, or on the tip of his tongue.

Nicolo was not given a friendly welcome, his clumsy Arabic and too pale skin marking him as a foreigner in this land. A foreigner who was too similar to the recent flood of other foreigners who had marched up north, ravaging and razing the land and its people. He bore all the hatred from their neighbors quietly, accepting it as a small part of his penance, even as the months passed and Yusuf’s irritation with the behavior grew louder.

When they walked together in the markets to buy food, Nicolo kept quiet as the merchants glared suspiciously at him. When men purposefully bumped into him and nearly caused him to fall, he hung his head. When they were refused entry into a tea shop because of him, Nicolo meekly backed away, pleading with Yusuf not to cause a scene. His companion felt every insult personally though, and would let his tongue run despite Nicolo’s requests to let it go.

Nicolo did not have the words to express to Yusuf that he deserved every dark glare and insult spit his way. That Yusuf’s heart was too big for such a cruel world, finding it possible to soothe over their violent beginnings to extend a hand in companionship, in loyalty Nicolo did not understand what he had done to earn.

How could he have explained that he would have borne many times the ill treatment if he could stay by Yusuf’s side? Learning Yusuf had become Nicolo’s favorite hobby, and he suspected it would remain one for as long as he lived. Learning the ways in which his eyes could light up, the delight he showed at discovering new texts from libraries and merchants.

Thirsting for the compliments the man bestowed so carelessly over Nicolo, always earnest but never thought of as words that made Nicolo feel as if he was working his way towards some kind of redemption.

“Thank you for the meal Nicolo, it is wonderful.” nearly weep in joy that his hands were able to mke something that could please his companion.

“Nicolo, your kindness is only matched by your gentleness,” Yusuf commented when he saw Nicolo laying out a bowl of milk for the newborn kittens a cat had birthed behind their house.

“Nico, how lucky was I to be blessed with your companionship through this new gift we have been given by Allah.” Yusuf said one night, the nickname making his heart skip a beat. He remembered having flushed red, which had delighted Yusuf into continuing his teasing.

Yusuf learned to use the nickname on a minimal basis, as it tended to render Nicolo useless following the utterance.

Each compliment, each fond nickname, each fond smile. They all seemed to lift a little bit of the burden weighing on Nicolo’s soul was being lifted, like his penance was being payed.

How could he have explained that their years in Alexandria had been liberating, showing him life outside the expectations that had been set for him from the church? Or the strange twisting in his gut when Yusuf recounted tales from his childhood?

Of the family he had left behind--of a father who sought his counsel before making big decisions for the family, of the mother who had spoiled him and punished him in equal turns when he acted unkindly? Or the sister who loved to prank Yusuf and play with him, laughing when she scared him, but always offering comfort afterwards? Or of the kind woman he had married a mere three years before he had left for battle? Yusuf had claimed that the match had been a practical one, not romantic, and his wife had been sensible. Nicolo had tried to reason with him, but Yusuf had stood firm that the best thing he could do for his wife would be to not burden her with a husband such as himself. If his family believed him dead, she would be able to remarry. 

The last one in particular made Nicolo’s mouth taste of rotten milk, curdled his insides with a feeling he could not identify. There were moments of agony, nightmares that plagued him with visions of Yusuf dying and not waking, of Nicolo being the one who killed him, who betrayed him. Nicolo would rise those nights and sit in their bare room against the wall opposite where they had laid down the mattresses. He spent the rest of the night watching Yusuf, letting himself enter almost a trance as he watched the rise and fall of his companion’s chest. The act was a comfort, a reassurane that Yusuf was safe, and he would always remain so whilst Nicolo was around.

They were in Alexandria for ten years, they made friends, they lived a life where they could pretend to be normal, just two men who had struck a peculiar friendship and were seeking to build a life anew. As the years passed though, they began to notice the people around them getting older, even as their age never showed itself. Realizing that they would not age meant that their time there would have an expiry date.

It was a heavy realization, both the implication of eternal youth, but als the robbing of their ability to settle, create proper roots, live out a natural life without arousing suspicion. They started to be even more careful, ensuring that they did not draw too much attention to themselves. Getting the wrong person’s eye on them could prove disastrous.

And yet, even with their abundance of caution, their eventual exit from the city came at the hands of two drunkards. Men who had burst into their room, accusing them of being traitors to their faith and tried to kill them. While obviously Yusuf and Nicolo managed to subdue them, it came at a cost of the security of the home they had built. They had tied up the men and left them outside, quickly packing up only their most essential things and leaving, burning the place as a precaution.

///

After Alexandria, Yusuf and Nicolo decided to head inland, away from the temptation of the Mediterranean Sea to travel back home. Nicolo had tried to convince Yusuf that he should return to the Magreb, see his family, reunite with his wife, even as every word twisted his stomach uneasily. He tried to tell himself that it was the possibility of Yusuf finally being convinced by his persuasions, Yusuf leaving for home, and then realizing that this life they had been playing at was a sham when confronted with the real thing. He told himself the reason food tasted like ash when Yusuf spoke of the lovers he took in their travels was because he was still not accustomed to the local food. He told himself a million lies to avoid thinking about the truth of Yusuf’s departure igniting a terror in him the depths of which he had never felt before.

But time and time again, Yusuf stayed, told Nicolo that as much as his heart yearned for home, at least this way he could preserve them in his memory as he had last seen them. He would not have to see them age as he lived without gaining a single wrinkle in his face, or a white curl in his hair. He did not want to live to see his own family become ghosts while he remained eternally frozen in his death, a wandering spirit.

They had spent ten years in Alexandria, the time flying beneath their unchanging feet. They heard whispers and news of the Crusades, of the victories, the losses, and the call for the second Crusade. Nicolo fought the urge to go to his people, not because he wanted to fight beside them, but rather because he wanted to make them see this was not their God’s plan. It was the plan of human men, petty, greedy, corruptible men who did not care for the cost of human life so long as they could amass a little more power under their hands.

Yusuf was the one to suggest that they move, that people were starting to notice their unchanging youth. They left Alexandria with heavy hearts. The place had some of the happiest memories. Yusuf advised they move inland, away from the fighting and away from the coast, and Nicolo followed him as a shadow. Nicolo knew Yusuf noticed how his nightmares had returned again, how he tossed and turned in the night. Even when they lay together, Nicolo with his back pressed to Yusuf’s broad chest, as had become their habit, sleep evaded him. Where before this position had aroused feelings he had not felt in many years, now, during their march in search of a new home, he felt suffocated. He was a burden, dragging Yusuf underneath the waves with him.

Of course Yusuf turned a deaf ear each time Nicolo brought this up, telling him that Nicolo was talking nonsense.

They had stumbled into the village entirely by accident (as Yusuf claimed) or they were predestined to end up there all along (as Nicolo argued). Regardless of the circumstances of how they arrived, they both found themselves welcomed by the people, a welcome change to the frosty reception one of them would usually receive.

It was a small place made of mainly shepherds and farmers, living and trying to make enough food to sustain themselves through the year. It was a major change from the bustling city of Alexandria, but the two immortals found their bearing quickly. They were able to make the small hut on the outskirts of the village their home. Soon enough the pair had been embraced by the people and called on to help with the various chores and duties that needed to be done.

They were the only ‘young’ men there, those of their age from the village having been summoned to war and not returned. As had become increasingly frequent, the two came to the same decision and conveyed it to the other with a mere glance before agreeing to stay and help. Yusuf, with his greater command of both the spoken and written local language, in addition to his natural charisma as a teacher, had been tasked with trying to teach the children enough to allow them a chance to venture out into the world. Nicolo was left with tending to the goats, and had only put up a token complaint. Goats were not that bad, Nicolo had thought. He changed his mind quickly, but was too stubborn to quit.

///

Nicolo breathed out a sigh when the village came into view again, grateful that he had managed to lead twenty five goats to graze and returned with all twenty five without any major incidents or disasters. Well, minus his tunic, which a couple of the kid goats had managed to chew a sizeable hole through when he had fallen asleep. Yusuf would not be pleased to know that. But it was not as if Nicolo could help if the goats found his clothing to be more appetizing than the grass.

The climate here was different to the deserts, the nights did not cool down as much, leaving Nicolo sweating uncomfortably in the bedrolls he shared with Yusuf. Both of them were bigger then most of the villagers, and the few clothes they had that fit was starting to wear them down to scapres. While so far they had been keeping their modesty by wearing their tunics to bed, they may soon have to forgo them. Nicolo could not figure out why that thought raised goosebumps across his flesh, the prospect of feeing Yusuf’s bare skin against his at night. And while there was always the option of sleeping farther apart, the thought made a lump form in his throat he couldn’t bear to pay attention to.

Yusuf had become far too dear to him. Their years in the desert had taught him as much about the world as they had about himself. The voice was growing dimmer everyday, the guilt of betraying his faith, of turning his back to God. He was starting to realize that all the Church had truly taught him was to hate those who were not similar to him, yet the true core of their faith was love. How had they all strayed so far from it? How had it taken dying and being reborn and dying and finally learning to live with a supposed infidel to finally open Nicolo’s eyes to this truth?

His musing came to an end when he reached the fenced little field in the outskirts of the village. He herded all the goats inside before going to tell Akbar that his goats were back. The man was profuse in his thanks and did not let Nicolo leave without a small packet of basbousa. Smiling in anticipation of the way Yusuf’s eyes would light up when he presented him with the dessert, Nicky hummed an old song they had picked up when they had crossed Alexandria, and made his way to the center of the village.

Only to be brought to a standstill when he saw the small gathering place of the village was filled with all the children of the village and at the center of the crowd was Yusuf. Yusuf with a smile bright enough to outshine the sun, with eyes that made one feel safe, and seen. There in the center of the court, teaching the children how to dance and sing at the same time, apparently not hindered by the two toddlers who kept weaving themselves in between his legs as he led Safiya through the dance while Abbas and Haafiz sung a song that kept getting drowned by the cheers from the rest of the children. 

The familiar lump grew in his throat as he felt his heart grow too big for his ribs. This man, so full of life and joy and happiness, how could he have been sent for war? His father’s hateful words haunted his dreams as often as the visions of the immortal women and the bloodbath at Jerusalem. Laying down his weapons had been easy, leaving the war behind with his murderer had been his choice, but here, falling in love with Yusuf? Oh, that had been inevitable, hadn’t it?

Watching him dance and sing with these children in this tiny village that was inconsequential in the grand design, would always be imprinted in his heart. Nicolo knew this with a certainty he had so rarely felt, because this memory would be the memory of Nicolo finally pushing away the final stone of the walls he had built around his heart. He had only been fooling himself, delaying the forgone conclusion that he was always going to fall in love with Yusuf. It was impossible to imagine a world where he didn’t.

But more than the exuberance that final admission brought to him, it was the freedom of accepting himself, of finally starting to remove all the hateful words his father and the Church had buried underneath his skin, that made him feel as though he could fly.

And then suddenly those eyes that had torn down his defenses so easily were on him, Yusuf approaching him with his open arms and kind smile. The world seemed to narrow to just the two of them when he grabbed Nicolo’s hand, and Nicolo let himself be tugged into the center of the fray. He barely heard the cheers of the other kids as he stumbled clumsily in a poor imitation of Yusuf’s graceful movements. But the man himself only crinkled his eyes and looked at him with such fondness he felt an urge to prostrate himself at his feet and beg for absolution. Yusuf grabbed his hands again, the points of contact sending sparks throughout his body as he was guided through the dance similarly to how Yusuf had led Safiya.

At the end of the whole spectacle, Nicolo could feel the blush high in his cheeks, and could only spare a moment to be grateful that it could be explained as embarrassment before one of the young girls in the village tugged at him, demanding that he carry her. He scooped her up, following her request that he throw her in the air and catch her. Her squeals brought him out of his head and he smiled widely as tidily plaited hair started to come undone as she briefly flew. He ended up having a small queue of children all demanding their turns before finally their mothers sought to grant him mercy and ushered the children away. At the end of this, his blush had become a flush of exertion, and when he turned back to Yusuf after waving goodbye to the last child, he was met with intense brown eyes that seemed to pierce his very soul.

Feeling the common speechlessness overcome him, he cleared his throat and tilted his way towards their hut. Then he tried to control his heartbeat as Yusuf rewarded him with one of his small smiles. For all that Yusuf’s large grins brightened the world around them, it was his small smiles that Nicolo truly treasured. Because they were secret smiles Yusuf gave when he was lost in thought. They were smiles he had only ever seen directed at Nicolo.

///

They had stayed in Constantinople longer than anywhere else since their immortality began. Their visions of the foreign women grew clearer with each year, and both Yusuf and Nicolo agreed these women must be like them. What other explanation could there be for them dreaming of the pair for a century and seeing no change in their visage?

Some of their dreams showed the women in a lover’s embrace, which always resulted in them waking up flushed and not fully able to look each other in the eye. Since his revelation so many years ago, Nicolo had resigned himself to being Yusuf’s friend. Even if nothing more happened, and how could it? How could Yusuf ever see him as someone to share his bed with, in the Biblical sense? Why would someone as brilliant as Yusuf settle for the dull little man from Genoa who did not even have enough moral backbone to stay true to his calling as a priest?

Their days in Constantinople were reminiscent of their early days in Alexandria. They made friends. With Yusuf’s help, Nicolo started attending church again.

It had taken some convincing on Yusuf’s part, Nicolo still feeling too guilty for his past crimes. But Yusuf had told him that those mistakes, the war, it had not been the fault of his God, but rather of the men who thought themselves to speak for him. The first visit had barely lasted a minute, Nicolo losing his nerve as soon as he crossed the threshold. Yusuf had not held it against him, but Nicolo wanted to do better. Wanted to do it for himself. And for Yusuf. The second visit he had sat in the last pew of the church, listening to the once familiar prayers, joining in about halfway through. After the service had ended, Nicolo had approached the altar, staring at the image of the crucified Jesus.

It had felt like he was being seen by God for the first time in a really long time. Yusuf did not need to convince him to go the third time.

They built a home for themselves at the crossroads of the world. They spent their days leisurely. Nicolo visited the libraries often, but he also flitted from stall to stall at the markets, finding people who were appreciative of free hands eager to learn. It seemed one month, Yusuf would return to their home to find Nicolo bent over books on metallurgy, and then another he’d find him with elbows tinted where he was learning to make dyes for clothes, and yet another month where he was trying to embroider a design into a silk cloth under the faint light of a candle and the moonlight shining through their bedroom window.

Nicolo at that time was racing through the streets back to their home, terror unlike any he had felt since his initial days coursed through his veins. There had been sightings of ships preparing for war and until now the Crusades had been far from their periphery, something he could ignore if he tried hard enough. But the news had just come in that Zara had been attacked. Zara, a Christian city, attacked by fellow Christians. If they could attack other Christians to sate their lust for money and power, what would they be willing to do to the other side?

Yusuf had already started preparations for their dinner when Nicolo arrived at home, half collapsed, his eyes slightly unfocused. Nicolo knew that his state would concern Yusuf, but he felt as if his world had shifted beneath his feet, leaving him scrambling to stay upright. Vaguely, he felt a warm hand grasp his elbow, guiding him to their small table, folding himself into the chair as Yusuf knelt between his feet. Even Yusuf’s voice, usually Nicolo’s guiding star in moments of despair, failed to draw him out.

The night was not one Nicolo could recall, no matter how much he tried. They fought longer than they had ever fought before since their little village after Alexandria. Yusuf began vehement in his position that he would not return to fight another pointless crusade, then moved to pleading with Nicolo to change his mind, begging him to see the uselessness of such an action.

Nicolo ached to give in to Yusuf’s reasoning, because the other man was right, this crusade was as pointless as the ones that had come before it. But his heart felt torn in two. He did not want to fight, war had exhausted him to his bones. And yet, the universe and his God had deemed him worthy of bestowing this gift of rebirth, and where better could it be used but in a fight for what he believed was right?

It was nearing dawn when Nicolo quietly explained that he would leave by nightfall, go to the head of the opposing forces and offer himself as a spy across the Crusader lines. Yusuf stared at him listlessly as he packed his necessities in a small bag, not helping but not stopping him either. Nicolo was grateful. He knew that if Yusuf physically stopped him, held his arm, told him he couldn’t go, froze him to the ground with his gaze, he’d be powerless to resist.

But of course, magnificent Yusuf who knew him inside and out, who had replicated him in charcoal and sand and clay and even marble the one time, Yusuf knew this and did not use that power against him.

When Nicolo had finished his preparations and gathered to leave, Yusuf rose from the chair he had been seated in the whole time and approached him, making Nicolo’s heart hammer. Yusuf pulled him close, wrapping strong arms around him, enveloping him in such warmth and tenderness Nicolo felt tears springing to his eyes. Biting his tongue till he tasted copper, Nicolo held Yusuf as tight as he could before letting him go. He left the house without looking back, not knowing if he’d be able to endure seeing Yusuf’s face contorted with the pain he was causing him. 

///

Nicolo had marched into the new Christian army with a heavy heart, feeling like he was betraying Yusuf with his choice to walk away from him, and the friendship they had built. But Nicolo loved Yusuf, and he had made too many mistakes against in him in his first lifetime, mistakes he would hopefully be able to set right in this new one.

The fighting was grueling, Nicolo mostly sticking to the periphery of the battles, trying to prevent the deaths of as many innocents as he could. He always volunteered to scout the areas ahead of the rest, had a mastery of the language due to his time spent on this side of the Meditterenean. He was smart about his actions though, knew that he had to be careful not to let others see his healing ability, but also make sure to try and prevent as much death as possible.

In the nights, he barely slept, the dreams of the two warrior women that had been plaguing him since he had left Jerusalem waking him. Those dreams were welcome to the flashes he received on Yusuf’s face though, the resignation in his face from when Nicolo had packed his things and walked out of the life they had made for themselves. Sometimes, he would see Yusuf in his battle regalia again, decked out and fighting as fiercely as when they first met.

Until one night, Nicolo saw Yusuf fight a man Nicolo recognized. From this fight, this war. A cold pit took root in Nicolo’s stomach when he realized that for all his protests Yusuf had followed him here.

And just like that they were suddenly right back where they started, Nicolo carrying a longsword in his hands as he fought under a cross he no longer believed in against people he had lived amongst for the past few decades. He didn’t rely on his sword, usually dropping it early on and fighting with his fists, trying to injure them enough to render them unconscious but alive. Praying he was giving them a change, injuring them just enough to keep them down long enough for them to survive the day, to be taken back to camp, to be sent home to their awaiting families, away from this unholy Holy War.

The other crusaders did not show his restraint though, he saw them fight with a bloodlust, their eyes filled with rage and divine justice. He tried to reason with them, tried to make them see the people they were slaughtering were not so different to themselves. His pleas fell on deaf ears, and the men marched daily with the same whole hearted belief that fighting and winning this war would guarantee them a place in the Lord’s heaven.

The youngest soldiers, boys, infants of barely twenty years, those Nicolo tried to shield the most. And yet, they were the ones who had something to prove, the ones who believed that killing these infidels would earn them glory. Nicolo was only one man, and he tried, and he failed to turn their hearts away from hatred. He clutched the doll he had rescued all those years ago close to his chest when he heard the cheers and jeers of the other men in the camp at night.

///

The clash of sword against sword was jarring. The sound of metal slicing through flesh, of choked out last breaths, of the stench of death and shit pervading the field was nigh unbearable. Nicolo found himself trembling where he stood, his vision overlaying Jerusalem of a lifetime ago on top of the battlefield today.

To complete the spectre, he saw the silhouette of the one man he recognized more clearly than his own shadow. Nicolo wanted to leave this field, to spend the rest of his altogether too long life on his knees, begging for penance to try and lessen his sins. But his greatest sin may have been to leave, to not have told Yusuf not to follow him. Because now Yusuf was on the battlefield again, trying to find him, fighting a war he had not wanted to be in. He was the reason Yusuf was here, and had to wash his hands in blood again. Hands Nicolo now knew to be so gentle as they combed out the hairs of little girls who begged for plaits. Hands so strong they rebuilt the hut of an old woman because he could not let her suffer in her last days. Hands so pure they did not come away dirty and burned when they touched Nicolo’s flesh. Arms that held him like he was not a monster, as though he could be forgiven.

The sight of Yusuf ignited Nicolo to fight harder, to the end the battle as quickly as possible to limit the amount of time Yusuf needs to spend in this cursed ground. He swung wide and true, a century of training honing his body to perfectly control the force behind his swings to kill his supposed brothers, or injure his supposed enemies. It was not enough, in the end.

As the sun started its descent from the center of the sky, the shadows grew. The Crusader army gained an advantage and pressed forward with a cry. Nicolo abandoned the fight, instead running across the field as he searched for Yusuf among those fighting, and then the dead, despair growing when he was unable to find him. He fell to his knees, tears staining the muddy ground underneath him. 

The piercing wail of a dying horse cut through the fog settling in Nicolo’s brain, and when he turned, he saw many of the soldiers congregating around something. Looking around, he saw their opponents all lay dead, the soldiers cheering at their victory. His ears were still ringing though, so he could not make out what they were saying.

He heaved himself to his feet, stumbling as he pushed through the crowd to the center. He felt his heart lodge itself in his throat as he watched Yusuf dragged on his knees in front of Severino.

Severino was a serf lord from Pisa who had risen through the Christian ranks for his tactical ability and extreme prejudice towards the Muslims. Nicolo had heard stories of the man personally overseeing torture of their prisoners, prolonging their deaths, deriving enjoyment from them. Had heard the other members of the army being wary of him but also commending him for his leadership. No one wanted to risk making him an enemy, but several of the other commanders of the army had shown displeasure, or outright disgust, at some of the machinations Severino proposed.

Nicolo had learned about newer depths of human depravity from him.

Nicolo focused on Yusuf again. Specifically, his eyes narrowed on the small wound in his forehead that hadn’t yet healed. That looked like it was still bleeding, and, God please, Lord above, don’t take him now. Not now when he couldn’t even tell him how he truly felt. Not now when Nicolo had learned that Yusuf was a treasure the world needed God no, don’t let this be when their gift ends, don’t let it be Nicolo’s stubbornness that leads to Yusuf’s final death, he will not survive it. Nicolo had always assumed that they would have to die at some point, their gifts couldn’t last forever.

_All things die. Everything has to die. But not today. Not Yusuf. Please. Not Yusuf._

Nicolo watched with terror as Severino stepped up to Yusuf, grabbing his lovely curls cruelly, and Nicolo wanted to cut that hand off, how dare he put his filthy hands on Yusuf. The sound of the backhand is loud, louder than the cheering that picks up volume as the gathered soldiers all cheer as this infidel enemy is sent crashing to the ground so his face lies in front of Severino’s feet. 

The world took on a red tinge as the voices of his fellow soldiers reached a fever pitch as Severino stepped on Yusuf’s head, digging his heel in, before spitting at his face. Once he saw that the Muslim was unable to move, he laughed and kicked at Yusuf’s chest until he was laying on his back. When the man had turned and was gasping in the ground, Severino stepped on windpipe, eliciting cheers at the gurgle from Yusuf’s thoat. And finally, he removed his sword from his scabbard and plunged it into into Yusuf’s stomach. Yusuf gave one final choked gurgle before going silent under Severino’s feet. 

And just like that the world exploded as a scream echoed through the field, Nicolo moving before his mind fully registered the scream as his own, his sword raised. He had only a second to relish the look of astonishment and fear that took over Severino’s face before the man’s hand was removed. The shock must have been inhibiting his pain, but Nicolo did not wait for the man to scream, merely swinging his sword again to neatly separate his head from his body.

There was a moment of stillness, as though the world itself watched in horror before the rest of the soldiers cried out and converged on Nicolo at once. Nicolo thought he heard Yusuf calling his name, but anger was still burning through his veins, and he let it pull him underneath. His mind submerged in the fury and outrage of these murderers thinking they have any right to harm Yusuf and getting to live another day. His body swung the sword wide, indiscriminately aiming for any limb or body moving towards him. He felt sharp points of pain in his arms, lines of fire across his back and legs where his armor was torn to shreds against three dozen swords, but they didn’t even slow him down. He heard some men stumble back, falling to their knees and praying for the Lord to show his mercy.

Nicolo wanted to laugh. Didn’t they realize their God did not exist, that their God is not his God? His God granted him a blessing he didn’t even know he needed one he still found himself undeserving of, and these men tried to kill him. No, even if their God did exist, he would tremble in fear in front of Nicolo’s vengeance.

He only came back to himself when every man in the field was dead, his breaths coming out in harsh pants and he leaned on his sword to make his way over to Yusuf’s body. He kicked away Severino’s headless body before sinking to his knees, a keening sound escaping him as he lightly threaded his trembling hands though Yusuf’s bloody curls .

“Yusuf, beloved, my love, my life, please, come back to me,” Nicolo pleaded as he gently traced those round cheeks he had seen redden with a blush mere weeks ago. This cannot be how it ends. Anything but this.

There, in the field surrounded by men he had personally cut down for hurting the one good thing he believed in, Nicolo bowed his head and prayed. Prayed for Yusuf to wake up, prayed and promised anything and everything the universe could want from him, his every remaining second of life, please just let Yusuf wake up.

As twilight wrapped the land in dark oranges and purples, Nicolo glared at the sword still plunged into Yusuf’s body. This weapon that had killed Yusuf. He wrapped his hand around the hilt, only to glance at his beloved’s face, and saw his lifeless eyes. A wail escaped him as those perpetually shining eyes were now dull and glassy, without a hint of the love or warmth that had accompanied them for the past few decades. 

He fell to his knees, the energy rushing out of him, leaving him to crawl until he could cradle Yusuf’s head on his lap. He bowed his head until his forehead touched Yusuf’s, one hand slung around Yusuf’s chest while another cradled his head. “Please, amore, mio cuore, my everything, come back to me, open your eyes, don’t let this be where we part. We came into this together, you cannot leave me alone Yusuf. Let me be selfish, I want to keep you, please, open your eyes.”

Nicolo’s voice gave out on him, only incomprehensible wheezes coming out as his vision blurred from the tears that started to fall. Nicolo could not recall how long he stayed like that, only that the world truly went pitch black around them. He heard vague rustling in the branches, the cawing of the vultures as they circled overhead and descended on the feast of bodies Nicolo had strewn for them. All he was aware of during his vigil was the weight of Yusuf, the lack of breath he drew, the silence that mocked him when he couldn’t feel the steady pulse of Yusuf’s heart underneath his fingertips.

At some point, the exhaustion of the day won over and he fell asleep, right there in the middle of the bodies. His hands had moved to wrp themselves tightly around Yusuf’s. He almost wished an animal would eat him too. He was just a dead man walking now.

But he woke up, collapsed on his side, tear tracks drying on his cheeks. In a mockery of previous morning memories, he awoke to see Yusuf’s sleeping face, peaceful even upside down. It only lasted a moment though, before the events from yesterday came rushing back, and Nicolo started to cry silently again.

Dawn was starting to break on the horizon, the sky still a dark orange as the sun began its ascent towards the heavens.

He roughly rubbed his tattered sleeves over his face before reaching into his pouch and retrieving a clean scrap of cloth. Delicately, he wiped away the blood from Yusuf’s face and neck, running his fingers through his hair until it was as neat as he could get it, with the blood matting it. Yusuf preferred his hair to be clean, and always complained that curls, for all that they were lovely, were a nightmare to clean once grime got stuck in them.

He lifted Yusuf’s head from his lap, gently laying it on the ground below. He almost looked as if he were just sleeping. Wiping away tears, Nicolo shifted. His muscles screamed in protest after having been confined to a single position for so many hours, but his curse wiped away the pain quickly enough. Standing, he braced himself on the ground and wrapped his hands around the hilt of the sword that was still impaling Yusuf, removed it in one quick movement. He tossed the blade to the side, and cleared the nearby bodies, leaving the area around Yusuf empty.

Swallowing the sorrow threatening to kill him, Nicolo moved to find some kind of shovel or trowel. He knew that Muslims buried their dead the same way his own people did, and Nicolo would make sure Yusuf got all the last rites he deserved. He walked back towards the Crusaders' camp, but knew if he entered it, he’d be questioned about the rest of the regiment. At the same time though, the Moors would surely send scouts to the battlefield to see what had become of their men. There would not be enough time, and Nicolo could not bear the thought of killing one of Yusuf’s brethren any longer. He found an abandoned hoe along the side of the road, the handle broken in two, but the blade itself was intact. Nicolo rescued it and started trekking back to bury his beloved.

Only, when he reentered the clearing, Yusuf’s body was not there. A sensation not unlike falling from a cliff overtook his body as his brain refused to believe that the body was not there. And more importantly, the only body not there, as the other Christians were still decaying in the field. Dropping the hoe, he called for Yusuf. Or tried to, only for his throat to croak instead as he remembered he had not drunk any water in a day, and cried whatever was left in his body.

Stumbling like a newly born foal, Nicolo walked to the place where he had left Yusuf. Could his prayers have been answered? He gathered the dirt under his hands, crushing the fistfuls of soil as he scanned the surroundings for that oh so familiar silhouette.

A branch snapping behind him had him spinning as he reached for a sword he had discarded ten feet away. He nearly fell back on his ass when Yusuf emerged from the scant covering of trees, looking pale and ill, but breathing. He stopped when he caught sight of Nicolo.

“Nico?” Yusuf called out, his name the sweetest sound Nicolo had ever heard.

“Yusuf…”

He didn’t notice the moment between standing up from where he was crouched to the moment where he had tackled Yusuf half against the nearby tree, which groaned at their combined weight.

“Nicolo. I found you.” Yusuf gasped out from where Nicolo had him in a death grip embrace.

Nicolo couldn’t stop the tears that started flowing again, overwhelmed by his prayers being granted. Yusuf was here, and he was alive. He felt Yusuf bring a hand to his hair and start to pet it comfortingly, which just made Nicolo’s breath stutter. He tightened in grip for a second, relishing in the feel of the strong heartbeat echoing between them, before loosening them enough to take a step back.

Yusuf was staring intensely at him, and Nicolo felt as if he was gazing into his very soul. Just like that day in Jerusalem. Except this time, it was not hatred he saw in those eyes, but the same love he had been seeing in his own reflection for many years now.

Yusuf barely managed to get the syllables of his name out before Nicolo crushed his lips to Yusuf’s.

All his life, Nicolo had been taught to hate the people Yusuf belonged to, had been taught to see them as inferior in every way. But Yusuf had not only proven each of those claims wrong, he had shown Nicolo how much more beautiful the world became if he saw it with an open mind and a heart full of love. Yusuf, who first extended his hand to his killer, to the foreign invader who belonged to a cause that had slaughtered so many of his kin, that had ruined his home. Yusuf who broke bread with the half-feral crusader across the campfire. Yusuf who fixed the houses of little old ladies, who used himself as a shield to prevent innocent blood from being spilled. Yusuf who sang to little girls and braided their hair with his gentle fingers. Yusuf who, despite the world trying to turn him into a monster, stood firm in his belief that there was goodness in the world. Yusuf who, for a friend, returned to a war that had nearly destroyed him.

Nicolo kissed Yusuf for the first time against a sagging tree in the aftermath of a battleground that even now was turning thirsty for blood. He kissed him against a soft sky of pale colours, to the song of a bird chirping a little ways away. He kissed him with no weapons in his hands, hands covered in dirt, and grime, and the blood of those had wronged his beloved.

Nicolo kissed Yusuf as an act of defiance, as an act of claiming, as an act of love, but above all, he kissed him as an act of war. A war for Nicolo’s very soul, of which Yusuf was divinely determined the victor before Nicolo even realized he was the battleground.

And the greatest miracle of all?

Yusuf kissed him back with the same mixture of relief, and desperation, and longing that spanned decades.

They finally broke the kiss when the need for air was too great, but did not move far from each other, leaning their foreheads together, Nicolo’s hand tightly gripping Yusuf’s curls and Yusuf’s arms settled in a vice grip around the other man’s waist.

“Don’t do that to me again, Yusuf. I thought you were dead, that you weren’t coming back, and I couldn’t…” Nicolo trailed off as the fear reared its ugly head again.

Yusuf just pressed Nicolo closer to himself.

“Forgive me, hayati, that was never my intention. When I woke up and you were not around, but all these Christians I had seen you fighting were, I feared you had been captured,” Yusuf said softly, as though afraid that if he raised his voice, this moment would break.

Nicolo sniffled, unafraid to cry in front of Yusuf, knowing the other man would never judge him for it. When Yusuf squeezed his waist, Nicolo let out a broken half-chuckle before tightening his own arms around Yusuf. He tucked his forehead into the junction of Yusuf’s shoulder and neck as if he could burrow into the skin itself, never live away from Yusuf ever again.

“I love you.”

Those three words seemed insignificant in the face of all that Yusuf made him feel, but they were the only words he had. He was not the poet between the pair of them, could not twist the words to paint the world beautifully, string together phrases in languages that they had seen die, or think of the perfect sentence that made him feel like his chest had been carved open and left exposed to the sun. But in this one instance, he would find them. Because Yusuf deserved them.

“Yusuf, I love you and I have for nearly two hundred years now. I think I have loved you for longer, but two hundred is how long I have recognized it in myself. You are beautiful, and bold, kind, sweet, and so precious to me. You are holy to me Yusuf, you guided me back to my God, you taught me the world was not all cruelty and death. When I left you in Constantinople, I left my heart behind with you because it has belonged to you for as long as I have loved you. Some days, I look at the world and I despair, or I rage, I see the ugliness of my faith that caused your people so much pain. I see the misery that never seems to stop, the needless deaths that happen to satisfy the whims of petty men who wield false power. But then I look at you, and,” Nicolo gasped, the words suddenly crowding in his throat all at once, all stumbling to get out and getting trapped, “I look at you and it all fades away. Because how awful can the world truly be if you are still on this earth? I do not know why I was chosen to walk this world with you, been given this gift of life, but I am so grateful because watching you is like watching the sun. You give me life, and purpose, and these last few months I felt like I could barely breathe. I saw you yesterday in that fight, and it felt as if I had been holding my breath since I left you. And when Severino killed you?”

Nicolo’s voice cracked, and he started to cry again, letting himself collapse into Yusuf’s embrace. Held in his arms, Nicolo could not remember a time when he had felt safer.

///

“Caro mio, we have come such a long way,” Joe said as he guided Nicky back to their bedroom. It was still early, and they still had some time before the others awoke.

“I don’t understand you, Joe.” Nicky said as he trailed behind Joe.

Joe turned to look at him, eyebrows raised in surprise. “What?”

“I know you, after 1000 years, I know you more than I know myself. But some days, I still don’t understand how you can be the way you are.” Nicky said as he sat at the edge of the bed, pulling Joe to stand between his knees.

Joe smiled as he took Nicky’s hands and kissed his knuckles. “And what way is that, amore?”

“Kind, forgiving, understanding.”

“Habibi, I was the one who pushed for Booker’s 100 year exile, remember?” Joe said as he brushed off a stray hair back behind Nicky’s ear.

“You were also the first to admit that we may have been too harsh and you wanted our brother back with us.” Nicky protested, as he had done every time Joe had said he was not perfect. “Your anger burns like a flame my love, it can burn you when it is lit, but it never sticks around.”

And Nicky wasn’t a fool, he knew Joe wasn’t a perfect human, that no such thing existed. But Joe had proven himself time and again to be the best man that he had ever met, and had not only forgiven him but allowed him to care for his heart, trusted him enough to make him half his soul.

Joe sighed and leaned forward to press a kiss to Nicky’s cheek, then nuzzled the skin behind his ear. “My love, I don’t deserve you.”

Nicky tightened his hands, squeezing Joe’s in the process.

“No", he said harshly, “you deserve everything in the world, Joe. I am the one who is not worthy of you.”

“Haya-”

“Joe. Yusuf. I’,” Nicolo took a deep breath, moving to rest his forehead against Joe’s, where the pair shared a couple breaths. Nicky pulled back, tugging Joe forward until both of them had fallen back on the bed sideways. He wated until they were settled, hands entwined in the middle, before he started.

“Do you remember that night in Constantinople? When I… when I left?”

Joe squuezed his hands, voice earnest as he said. “I don’t think I’ll ever forget that night, my heart.”

Nicky closed his eyes, feeling a watery smile stretch across his face. Joe made a wounded noise, freeing one hand to wipe away the tear that had escaped before cupping the back of Nicky’s neck.

“My father has been dead for over a millennium, yet some nights his voice still taunts me in my dreams.” Ncky said. “When I first met you in the fields outside of Jerusalem, my heart had been rotted by the hatred the Church had instilled in me for your people, people I had not known or who had done anything wrong. I died by your hand and rose, and even then I felt a thread connecting me to you.”

Yusuf’s lips split into a small smile. “My djinn disguised as a Frank.”

“My demonic infidel,” Nicky countered, leaning forward to nudge him with his nose. “I was raised to follow my faith, and my faith demanded that I become a soldier, so that is what I became. And then I met you, and yes it took some time, but I put my weapons down for you.”

“And I you.”

“I had all these walls around me I couldn’t even remember putting up, but you didn’t care how long it took, you helped me take them all down, one stone at a time. Without even realizing it. Because that is the kind of person you are.”

Now, Joe was the one who had tears gathering the corners of his eyes.

“Those first months wandering the desert with no direction, I felt like I could be myself, my true self. I had never had that before, it had only ever been what I could be to my father, and then to my teachers, my parishioners, the generals and other soldiers.” Nicky turned wistful, “Walking in the desert, for the first time I had a chance to make myself into anything I wanted, and it terrified me, because the only thing I wanted was to become someone you would want to stay beside. I was so scared of what I was feeling for you, so scared, I tried to push you, argued that you should go home to the Maghreb, but you didn’t listen. You stayed. And my father's voice rang so loud in my ears back then, telling me these feelings I had for you were the reason I was trapped on Earth, why I had committed such a sin even the devil wouldn’t take me.”

“You had captivated me, Nicky, I knew that whatever I found back home, I would not be able to keep for long, and I was scared of losing you, too.” Joe said. “This foreign invader who by all means was inhuman, unearthly, and yet you showed kindness to all those innocents we crossed paths with. How many times did you go hungry because you gave away your food? Or cold because we saw a family that could use the blankets more? You were such a conflicting mess of contradictions for me. You spoke so little, but your eyes haunted me with all they seemed to say.”

“That night in Constantinople, I tore up my arms, made them bleed just so I could focus on the pain. I knew I couldn’t stay, that I needed to fight because what the Christians were fighting for was wrong. But mostly because I could not stand to see you involved in a fight again. I was so glad that you didn’t want to join the fight, but then I saw you in the battlefield and my heart nearly stopped. I had tried so hard to keep you away but you followed me anyways, and ended up dead again.”

Joe pressed a kiss to his hair, moving until both of them were sitting against the headboard, Nicky curled into Joe’s side, one of Joe’s arms around his waist and the other held between Nicky’s.

“I’m here, my love. We both are. The past is finished, we made it through.”

Another tear made its way down Nicky’s cheek. “When I went off to fight I went to fight for you, and I knew it was a fight I had to fight alone. When you kissed me after against that tree, it felt like the world shifted under my feet until it was right. You had been what I had my whole life ,and it took nearly losing you due to my own foolishness to see it.”

“Neither your love or your desire to stop the slaughter of innocents was foolishness, Nicolo.”

Hearing his true name caused a shiver to run down Nicky’s spine.

“You had had my heart for so long Joe, I built you a house but then I was terrified to ask you to come home, because what if you didn’t? What if you had turned me away? Left me? I would not have survived.” Nicky said earnestly.

“There’s no point in contemplating useless what ifs, Nicky. I would never leave you.”

Nicky turned onto his back, unable to look Joe in the eye for longer. He left their hands joined though.

“We met Andy and Quynh soon after we left that war.”

“We did.”

“Every day I had you beside me, every day I have, those voices disappear, Joe. Because how can they be true in the face of over 800 years of the love you have shown me? I know it is stupid to think back on my father’s words, to poke at wounds that healed centuries ago, but every once in a while they flare up. Phantom pains I suppose.”

“I will be here to hold you through them all, Nicky.” Joe promised. And Nicky knew Joe would keep his promise.

“I wonder what Avraham would think of this brand new world.” Nicky said. It had taken until after they had gotten together for him to work up the guts to tell Joe about one of the important people from his past. It had been difficult, the memories bittersweet, but Joe had been patient. Joe heard Nicky joke about how he never got to hear the end of Gilgamesh’s tale because his father had found them, and heard the sadness Nicky had tried to hide.

Joe had found his way to a library in Cairo and searched out the full story just so he could give some kind of closure to Nicky. Nicky had been overwhelmed when Joe presented him with the scroll, but ultimately asked Joe to read it to him instead. He had held onto the wooden duck carving the whole while.

And when the duck had nearly gotten broken during an attack, Joe had been the one to stay up all night fixing it back to its original state. Joe had never denied him his memories of Avraham, had in fact asked him for more stories. Said he wished he could have met him, that he sounded like a kindred spirit.

“Avraham?”

“I don’t know if I loved him Joe. Or, I did love him. But not like I love you. I could never-”

“Hayati, I know. What does Avraham have to do with anything of today?”

“He was my start. The start of my realizing I did not feel the same way about girls as anyone else. The start of my having to leave home. The start of me eventually joining the Christian army and then finding my way to you. It has been 900 years. I don’t even remember his face anymore. But I remember the twinkle in his eyes. And the warmth his laugh would give me. I remember how safe it felt when he held my hand.”

Nicky finally turned to look at him, eyes full of that depthless love that stole Joe’s breath away.

“I feel them evey time I look at you Joe. I know. I know you. Your hands, your smiles, your words, you. You are here, and you are by my side, and you are mine. And that is enough to outshine and block any pain I might be having. You are the only thing I ever need anymore, cuore mio.”

Joe shuffled forward till he could wrap an arm around his waist. “Ya amar. I am yours until my final breath.”

Nicky unclasped one hand from their joined hands to cup Joe’s cheek, guiding him in for a kiss that felt like liberation, and freedom.

It felt like home.

///

Knocking at their door startled Nicky awake, pulling him away from Joe’s grasp as he reached for the gun underneath his pillow before he registered Nile’s voice. Joe yawned next to him, eyes cracking open as he rubbed a hand down his face.

“Nicky! Joe! Are you guys still sleeping? We are going to be late!”

Nicky blinked away the last of his sleep and turned to see the clock, cursing when he saw the two of them had fallen asleep and were now going to be late to the parade. Twisting, he shook at Joe’s shoulder until the man woke.

Luckily, decades of having to be ready at a moment’s notice meant that despite the badly-timed but much needed nap, they were able to get ready and meet the rest of their family at the door in three minutes. The stroll through the streets was pleasant. They had all decided that walking would be better than trying to sort out vehicle issues. By the time they got to the parade itself, the crowd was already there, joy suffusing the air around them until they felt like they could fly.

Nicky looks around the crowd, sees the diversity of humanity, the young children who were growing in a world that was thankfully becoming more accepting of differences from the expected norm, of the old who had suffered so much but were still there, had survived and come out the other side. Those with flags of all colours waving them around and cheering, celebrating their difference, their existence, their _pride_ at being alive and unafraid to show the world who they truly were.

He especially looked at the couples, men and women and people holding the hands of their partners, their friends, hugging them, kissing them, holding them. He squeezed Joe’s hands until both their knuckles turned white but Joe did not comment beyond a single raised eyebrow.

Nicky knew he should give an explanation but the words were getting trapped in his throat again. He was nearly a thousand years old, he had been reborn during one of the darkest moments of humanity’s history, fighting for something he had not fully understood.

He had met a demon who turned out to be the reason he would wake up feeling happy for the rest of his days, and fought with him. Killed him. Left with him. Built a life with him. Fallen in love with him and then become so entwined they had yet to uncover a word in any language that could try to begin to describe what they felt for each other.

At one point they lost the others to the crowd, but they had expected that to happen, and knew they’d just reconvene at their safehouse at the end of the day. As they watched the people march, proudly displaying their colors, Nicky smiled.

He pulled Joe towards him, gripping him by the biceps when the man nearly fell on him, and once he had righted himself, kissed him.

Kissed him in defiance of the hatred his father had tried to sow in him and then shown him when he had not let himself be plown.

Kissed him despite the rules that even now the Church was condemning, because he had come to terms with his God, and knew that every second with his Joe was a blessing, and God had bestowed the greatest gift he could ask for before he had even realized he needed it.

Kissed him because he had been at war all his life, fighting from the moment he knew that the world was split into things that were right and wrong, and tried to choose the right option as much as he could with what he knew at that time.

Nicky kissed Joe like it was an act of war.

And Joe kissed him back because it was one they were going to win.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading along, if you want to come chat, you can find me at fangirlshrewt97.tumblr.com!


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